Ice Queen
by icequeen667
Summary: NAOMILY, S3/4 CANON from Naomi's POV. Sometimes the sweetest words have the bitterest taste. Naomi has learnt to live inside an ice fortress. She's learnt to wear sarcasm and cruelty like a second skin - and it works. It keeps her safe. But a tiny redhead has the power to strip away everything that Naomi has relied on for years.
1. Chapter 1

**Ice Queen**

I sat perched on the edge of my bed, fingering the obnoxiously flowery stationary of Pandora's birthday invitation. It's handmade. Crinkly brown cardstock with bright foam flowers stuck haphazardly around the words 'PANDORA'S PYJAMA PARTY' in great, looping letters.

Fucking _hell. _Why did I fucking agree to this?

I toss the invite onto my bed and begin sweeping through my wardrobe for something to wear. If I am going to this thing I'll at least have a decent outfit. No way am I wearing _pyjamas. _No fucking way.

I hold a printed tee against my chest and glance despairingly at the mirror. Shit. I toss it onto my bed. For the next fifteen minutes, item after item of clothing follows suit into a lump of clothes on my bed. With an angry groan, I knead my fists against my temples, meeting my gaze in the mirror. I'm _nervous. _There is a coiled mass of nerves sitting like a rock in my stomach. I glare at the familiar blue orbs staring back at me in the mirror.

_Stop it. _I tell myself firmly. _Ice queen, remember? _

But my mind is swimming with a pair of eyes that are not my own. Warm, chocolate brown instead of husky-blue. Those fucking _eyes. _Like honey and dark chocolate. I never thought myself much of a fan of brown eyes until I saw hers. I used to find brown kind of flat, like the sweet but blank gaze of my neighbour's King Charles. And then I saw hers – no, was _swallowed_ – and realised how incredibly fucking wrong I was. Like the deepest, richest mahogany – silky chocolate darkness with an amber sheen. They were _warmth. _Pure fucking _warmth. _

FUCK. Ice queen, Naomi, you dozy cow. Stop infatuating.

Angrily, I turn to the mountain of clothes and grab the first half-decent ensemble I see. Dark tee, striped pull-over and a kind of boho red vest over denim shorts. It will do. _It's not like you give a fuck anyway, _I tell myself weakly. I strip out of my current comfy ensemble – sweat pants and my favourite tee sporting a large print of a pig (don't fucking ask) – and discard them onto the pile as well. In just my bra and panties, I lean to dress but pause, catching a glimpse at myself in the mirror.

I straighten up, glancing at my figure curiously. I don't fucking know _why_ – I mean I know what I goddamned look like, obviously. It's like I'm suddenly self-conscious. I pinch nervously at the skin of my navel, twisting to the side to get a better view. I look at myself with a critical eye, my mind subconsciously wandering to whether those brown eyes would wander over my skin appraisingly or with disdain…

For _fucks sake_. I quickly dress and toss a necklace yanked from the glittery mess on my dresser around my neck. I yank a brush through my hair and stare stonily at my reflection. It's just a fucking slumberparty.

"It's just a fucking slumber party," I repeat out loud to myself. "You're not _gay."_

I cringe at the word. It sounds ugly. Like this terrible-no-good-thing that should never be formed by my lips. I cringe at my memory of the other night. How I'd thrown the word at Emily like a knife. The way those eyes tightened with hurt at my callousness. I felt cruel afterwards, dirty. I _had _been cruel. Yes, she was the one who kissed me at that stupid party, but we both well know that I kissed her back. My fingers flutter against my collarbone nervously at the memory. The velvet warmth of her lips, her tongue tracing a line of fire along my lower lip, her fingertips resting against my cheek, dusting my skin with a feather lightness that made my head spin. But I couldn't help myself. I wanted to throw that word at her the way she'd let Katie and her minions throw it at me.

I glance at the clock. Time to leave. I've got a fucking _pyjama party _to attend.

Christ. I grab a bottle of something from the alcohol cabinet on the way out. I'm going to fucking need it.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Jesus.

Pandora's house is like a fucking poster child for suburbia. There are pink balloons tied to the mailbox. I nearly turn around right there. I swear I nearly do.

But there are tendrils of fire-red hair tied to my mind like an anchor. They pull me toward the door like steel.

_Singing. _It trickles from under the door with a plasticine cheerfulness that makes me want to puke.

"Fucking hell," I mutter under my breath. I am so not prepared for this. I turn to see some nosy old codger peering disdainfully at me through a pair of oval glasses. He's clenching a pair of hedge trimmers like it's his last defence against the horror of my teenage drudgery.

"Yes?" I snap.

"Nothing," he smirks, "I have nothing to say to you at all." He turns back to trimming at the hedge with pompous intensity. What an arselicker.

"Hi!"

Fuck. That smoky voice. I turn.

God, she's fucking _adorable. _That flaming red hair lit up by the soft afternoon sun. Just a touch of light and those locks are _fluorescent. _Her mouth is curled into a small, nervous smile, but I can see a larger one itching beneath it. God, she's such an open book. She's genuinely happy to see me. It's like a punch in the face; that brazen show of emotion. As if she's just thrusting her thoughts into the space between us, wrenching them from the shadowy safety of her mind and just letting them sit in plain view – fragile as stained glass, and just as beautiful.

Jesus, hold it together Naomi.

"I've never been to a pyjama party before," she smirks, "So I brought vodka. Was that right?"

Ice queen, Naomi.

"Dunno," I shrug indifferently, but I can't bite back the smile that crawls across my lips. Fuck, she's looking at me so sweetly. For a moment I panic that she can see right through my whole ice-cold-bitch routine, that somehow she knows exactly how her eyes make me dizzy. _No, _I tell myself firmly. _You're good at this. She doesn't even know you._

That warm little smile doesn't budge.

"I don't _wear _pyjamas," she says, leaning in conspiratorially. _Fuck me. _Did she really just say that? I desperately try to supress the images ricocheting in my head: a sleeping Emily, the line of her spine stretching down her bare back, the soft curve of her waist – fuck, stop it. _"Me either" _I want to whisper in reply, and watch that honey-sweet smile twist into something sharper.

"Right," I say quickly, shaking the images from my mind. What the actual _fuck_, Naomi?

"I don't know why she invited me anyway," I say, hurriedly pulling the conversation away from pyjamas, or lack thereof. "I hardly know her."

"I asked her to invite you." Suddenly the smile has slipped to serious intensity. She flicks her eyes up at me, and those chocolate-honey eyes touch my skin like a burn. She's doing it again – thrusting her feelings into the open, knowing full well they could fall and shatter in an instant. My blood spikes with the honesty of it, of _her. _She's challenging me with those walnut eyes: uncovering those shimmering glass panes of truth, _Break them _she dares me.

It _terrifies _me.

I backpedal from the intensity of that gaze. The thought of opening myself to that kind of vulnerability – like an animal uncurling to reveal their tender underbelly – is intolerable.

"I thought we sorted this out." I let my voice fall flat. I'm curling behind the coldness of my words like a shield.

"No, I didn't mean that," she protests, her voice stinging with hurt. And _disappointment. _It makes me nauseous. I'm a _fucking coward_, and she can see it. "Well, it doesn't hurt to get to know each other."

"Emily," I sigh, secretly savouring the shape of her name on my tongue.

"We're in the same class! We'll be hanging out for the next two years – " Theres a lilt of anger in her voice now. I'm a _fucking coward _and she knows it.

I panic.

"You going to tell people you're gay anytime soon?" I throw the question like a shard of ice. She's silent. I watch her face fall, like I knew it would. I want to curl away from myself in revulsion. But it's like second nature now, this cold cruelty. It comes too easily.

"What?" she demands, her voice husky with hurt. "I'm not. I'm not gay."

I chuckle. I fucking _chuckle. _

"Telling you, Em. You haven't thought this through."

"No," she sighs. Bet she's regretting trying to confide in Naomi, the fucking ice queen.

"So can I just say again? Me, not muff-muncher. Me, cock cruncher." I pull the words around me like curtains of steel.

I turn toward the door.

"You getting any?" she demands. "Cock?"

I smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. It's the white flag. I glance at her, eyes dancing and wearing a cheeky grin. I don't stand a fucking chance.

"I have done," I say with false indignation. I glance at her again. White flag. Truce. "Except he had erectile dysfunction," I smirk, "Seventeen times."

She laughs this soft, smoky laugh and suddenly this pyjama party doesn't seem like such a shite idea.

"I was getting tennis elbow, you know?" It's addictive, that laugh. I want more. And it's bloody true, too. I had to ice my fucking arm.

That pompous arselicker is staring down his nose at us again. We smite him with simultaneous looks of 'fuck you'. "Yes?" I snap, again. "Can I help you with something?"

Disgraceful young women, he says. "Yeah?" I smirk. "Go fuck yourself, tosser."

I look at Emily. She's grinning at me like maybe I'm not just a pathetic coward. No, she's looking at me like she thinks I can do anything in the fucking world.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

I've decided that Panda's mum is fucking fantastic. Of course, I'd bloody riot if she was my mother, but for a few hours it will be _immensely _entertaining to observe this specimen of suburbia hilarity. She's completely _ra-ra _as her daughter would so finely put it. I mean, _Christ._

"So, your all chums?" She's wearing a plaid sweater and an apron. She's fucking Betty Crocker, in the flesh.

"Oh yeah!" Panda crows, "Ems and Naomi are real good friends. Real good!"

I glance at Emily and she's giving me this embarrassed little smirk that makes me buzz like I've just downed a few shots of vodka.

Betty Crocker is just now struggling with the realisation that Emily is awfully familiar. I watch the cogs turn, labouredly, in her head she approaches the unfathomable concept of _twins. _

"They're twins!" Pandora declares proudly, helping her out. "C'est incroyable, baby!"

"Sorry?"

"It's French! Thomas taught me. He's such a blinking dream and…"

Betty Crocker snaps her head like a bloodhound catching a scent. It's actually rather fucking terrifying. I bite back a smirk as Pandora jerkily stumbles to answer her mother's questions about who exactly _Thomas _is.

Don't laugh, Naomi. Its called _sensitivity_, people use it sometimes.

"Actually, he's my boyfriend." I volunteer. Why the fuck not. I'm feeling charitable.

With that settled, Emily and Katie's remarkable existence returns as the topic of interest.

"So, are you interested in all the same things?" Betty Crocker asks, naïve to her complete and utter dumbassery.

I suppress an eye roll, biting my lip. _No they are not, _I want to snap, _They are absolutely not the fucking same. _

I catch Emily's eye and her mouth twitches, curling into another honey-sweet smile.

No, definitely not the same.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Twister." I say flatly, staring aghast at the wrinkled plastic laid out on the floor in front of us. "You've got to be shitting me."

I'm sat next to the two Fitches. The two completely-_not_-identical Emily and Katie. Fire and ice. Sugar and salt.

I mean, Pandora seems like a nice girl and I don't want to hurt her feelings or anything, but I don't know if I can actually make it through this. Twister, for Christ's sake. I mean, I'm just unsure of whether I could actually physically survive how _fucking stupid _this is.

And then Katie announces that she spiked the brownies with MDMA and I feel considerably better. Emily, not so much.

"You think it's funny?" she demands from me angrily when I muffle a snigger. She looks genuinely upset, like I'm letting her down by siding with Katie. A pang of guilt, but then I catch myself. What the _fuck_. I don't owe her _anything. _Why do I feel this pathetic need to please her?

I turn to Katie, defiantly. "So Katie. You going to be nice to be now that we're twister pals?" I ask dryly. "I promise not to grab your minge or anything."

She glares at me for a moment, and then snorts with laughter. "Yeah, hands off the muff and we're sorted."

"Gotcha, no buffing the beaver."

"No groping the growler."

"Don't tickle on my tinkle."

"OK, I wont fluff up your flange."

The banter is cruel. Emily gazes back and forth between us, hurt. There's that creeping stain of disappointment again. "You done?" she snaps.

"Yep, we're double done with the DNA dump." Katie smirks, collapsing into a fit of laughter. Emily is staring at her feet with this kicked-puppy sadness painted on her face. For a moment I am swallowed by this ridiculous, _totally_ _fucking stupid_ desire to cup her cheek and wipe away the expression with my fingertips. Instead, I snigger at Katie's stupid joke, and my laugh sounds fake and callous.

Pandora bursts into the room, ruddy faced with excitement. She's brandishing a pile of what looks like scrap fabric. _Pink _fabric. Pyjamas. You have got to be _fucking shitting me._

Sorry Ems, but I really am glad Katie spiked those brownies.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

We're huddled in some kind of fucking girl-scout circle, changing into these horrendous pyjamas. It's totally shit and everything, but I can't stop this stupid smile from plastering across my face like some ridiculous cartoon character. I try to remind myself that I'm at a bollocking _pyjama party_, but I'm giggling like an idiot and for the first time in a while the whole ice queen thing kind of slips away. I'm having _fun. _At a bloody pyjama party. Christ.

I am studiously avoiding the opposite side of the room where Emily is changing, because _Naomi you are not a fucking pervy lezzer _and even the few glances I've snatched of her pale navel have got a flush itching at my neck.

But I can feel those brown eyes trace my skin like fire.

Panda is yanking at my pyjama top, the neckline of which had seemed decidedly too small to fit over my head, but suddenly it gives and is past my ears in a quick moment. Blinking, for a moment I forget to avoid that particular vicinity of the room. _Shit. _

_Shit._

Emily is twisted slightly to the side, bending to pick up something at Katie's feet. She's topless. Without a bra, she clutches the pyjama at her front to cover her breasts. _Fuck. _Her bare back is on full show; the line of her spine a delicate stroke of calligraphy that tails off at the soft curve of her lower back. That red hair is spilling across the white-pink skin of her shoulders – loose curls that spill down her back, tendrils of fire curling against the snowy white of her skin.

She is _fucking gorgeous. _

I realise that I'm standing there, ogling like a complete perv. I clear my throat and look away, praying to whatever cruel fucker is out there that nobody just saw me being a complete _pervy lezzer. _I glance around the room, they seem oblivious –

And then I catch Effy, staring me square in the face. Oh shit. She totally just saw me perving the hell out of Emily Fitch. Shit. She raises an eyebrow. _Well, you're fucked _the look said.

Yep. I'm _well _fucked.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Betty Crocker is fucking _monged. _I told you she was fantastic.

We're having a bloody disco without any music, munching on Katie's 40 quid worth of MDMA brownies, our dancing growing steadily more ridiculous as the warm blur of the MDMA spreads through our limbs. Thank Christ for Katie and her brownies, because I really am a fucking terrible dancer.

I'm grinning like a loser. Effy is completely out of it, thrashing her hips about, her arms waving above her head; she keeps colliding with me and its fucking hilarious. "Watch it you dozy cow!" I shout, shoving her away gently.

A smoky laugh. It gives me more of a buzz than the brownies. I glance up, and there she is. Emily fucking Fitch, swaying hypnotically at the other side of the room. She looks at me. _Looks _at me, that same intense gaze that had me locking down my entire ice fortress outside. Goosebumps zipline down my forearms. Those eyes shoot through my like a barb, and she's daring me again, testing me: _Look away_. Ice queen, I tell myself weakly. But I'm grinning like a fucking dork and my pyjamas have 'Brainy Poo' stitched on them for Christ's sake. Those liquid pools of warmth are magnetic. Fuck it. There is still that nervous itch of fear tugging at my chest, but I lock my eyes onto those gorgeous chocolate coins and dare her right back: _You first._

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Eventually we get tired of our silent disco, and Katie scuttles off to find a sound system. Panda seems to have disappeared, and Effy – face taut with worry – dashes off to find her. It never ceases to amaze me the soft spot Effy has for that crazy girl. She's got this impenetrable badass routine down to a T, but it comes to loony old Panda - whose basically an overgrown child, if we're honest – she crumbles like sand. That leaves just me, Emily and Betty fucking Crocker, who is giggling on the ground. Jesus, how many brownies did this woman have?She is pissing _gone. _I glance from her comatose form to Em, a smirk on my lips, but she's not nearly as amused. Her face is painted with guilt, and she's staring at old Betty with genuine concern. I bite back the joke forming on my lips and blow out a sigh through my nostrils. Jesus, this girl is too nice for her own bloody good.

"Come on, Em, let's get her into bed."

She glances up at me with gratitude. I guess she's not used to anyone actually giving a fuck about her concerns, what with the way Katie treats her. I lean down and hook my arms under Betty Crocker's, and Em darts forward to lift her legs. Christ, she's fucking heavy for such a thin lady. I kick open the door with my foot and we stagger down the hall. Jesus, that dopey smile seems to have become a permanent fixture on my face. I tighten my hold on our cargo and try to avoid the way that Emily has to keep blowing the tendrils of red falling in front of her eyes. In the blurry buzz of the MDMA, those strands of hair glow like embers, luminescent red strands of light that I want to reach out and catch between my fingers.

"She's completely fucking monged," I snicker, and Emily snorts with laughter.

"Shit!" she yelps, quickly re-adjusting her hold. "You're going to make me fucking drop her, tosser!"

I giggle, and the sound is strangely unfamiliar to me. It's…nice, though.

"She's really got the moves, though, doesn't she?" Emily snorts, shimmying her hips. More laughter - it's probably just the MDMA, but I still get a little electric shock each time the sound slips from my mouth, falling into the air without my permission.

"That was so – so fun," I smile, and it feels like a confession.

"Dump her in here!" Emily announces, balancing precariously on one leg to kick open a bedroom door behind her. I snort as she wobbles to regain her balance. Jesus, I should have gone easy on the brownies. The ice queen has been replaced by a giggly fucking girl-scout.

We roll her onto the bed and she falls, limp as rubber. Fucking hell. Don't know how Panda's going to talk her way out of this one.

"Is she breathing?" Emily asks suddenly, and when I glance at her, her brow is creased in worry. Suddenly the little crease between her eyes is the most mesmerising thing in the world. I'm monging and I fucking know it – she's staring worriedly at Panda's mum, but my world is a narrow tilt-shift and I want to trace a fingertip over that thin dimple, iron it out and restore the silky porcelain smoothness of her skin -

I'm roused by an impressive belch from Betty Crocker. Christ.

"Safe." I announce. I glance at Emily. She's smiling that honey-sweet smile and I'm grinning this big dopey grin, and suddenly I realise that Emily Fitch is more of a drug than Katie's baking. My ice fortress is a fucking puddle.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

We filter back into the party, and I say _we _because without even realising it, I'm trailing behind her like a fucking puppy. Katie has somehow managed to get pop music blaring through the house, and Emily grabs my hand to tugs me into an unsteady sway to Lily Allen's 'Fuck You'. I laugh as she belts out the chorus, her voice drunkenly loud and off-key. She collapses into a fit of giggles and stumbles against my shoulder. Suddenly her fingers clenched around mine, that husky laugh, her weight jostling against me: its claustrophobic – like a flash of vertigo, that sensation that you get at heights, knowing that a force bigger than yourself could pull you to the bone-shattering earth. I pull away and stumble toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Emily cries.

"Wine," I shout, sighing with relief as the cool afternoon air touches my skin. "I want wine."

The sensation vanishes as quickly as it came, and I will my stupid heart to stop pounding in my chest like it's determined to crack a rib.

"Hurry up with it!" I hear Emily shout. "Get beer, lezzer!"

I chuckle at the old jab, leaning to scoop up the alcoholic loot that Panda discarded earlier in a plant pot – when her mother was still conscious.

"Alright, alright. Keep your vagina on," I grumble with a smile. I stagger back inside, swaying slightly as my vision wavers and tilts. Katie was right. That was some good fucking shit.

I stumble inside and snigger as Em rounds the corner in her 'Sexy Poo' pyjamas.

"So, what do you want Ems?" I slur lazily, rolling her name around on my tongue. "Pinot Grigio, or…" I frown, my brain fuzzily trying to decode the cursive script. "Cider oblivy?"

"Anything," she mutters huskily. I glance up. She's about two feet closer than she should be, those chocolate eyes just a few inches away, but I don't step away. "Just give me a fucking…" her eyes are glued to my lips, and a vague awareness at the back of my mind tells me that I should turn away, but I'm completely trapped by those soft pink caterpillar lips, curling delicately around the words. "Just…just give me a—"

Her eyes flick up briefly, and then she leans forward and presses her lips firmly against mine.

_Fuck_.

"Oh," I murmur. She's looking at me, gauging my reaction. The small corner of my mind retaining any sense is weakly demanding that I step back, throw up a wall of ice – but the rest of my mind is reeling with the feeling of her mouth against mine, and those long, dark lashes fluttering like moth-wings just a few centimetres from my face…

"It's only the drugs, right?" I question weakly. We both know the answer – what I'm really telling her is _I don't know what this means_, and she nods emphatically: _I know._

I flick my eyes back to the velvet pink of her lips, like rosy pillows of Turkish Delight. I lean in and catch one between my lips hungrily.

Holy _shit. _I am snogging Emily fucking Fitch. What the _fuck_, Naomi?

She kisses me carefully; gently brushing her lips against mine, pulling softly at my bottom lip. I lean in slightly, deepening the kiss, allowing my tongue to gently graze the edge of her lip. Her fingertips trace lightly over my elbow, barely touching, just resting moth-light against my skin. Her mouth is so fucking soft, moving against mine with satiny smoothness; soft, lingering kisses, wrapping around my lips gently, as if they might tear. She pulls away too soon, and I want to lean back in and pull her lips back against mine – but I can't. Because underneath the heady dizziness of the kiss, I can feel an insidious tendril of fear raking root in my gut; because my heart is hammering against my chest and suddenly the feathery rhythm of my pulse seems like such a precious, breakable thing.

"You liked that." She says firmly, and it's not a question. Fuzzily, I try and pull my mind from the breathless stupor of the kiss. She's looking at me with this transparent kindness, not demanding anything, just warily trying to catch a glance at my thoughts. I bite my lip nervously. Yes, I fucking liked that. That's the problem. I pull in a breath through my nose, giving myself a mental shake. Get your shit together, Naomi.

"You're gay." I say firmly, with a sly smile, and it's not a question, either. Touché. We're both clinging to simple truths.

Lily Allen is crooning in the background: _And I don't know how I'm meant to feel, anymore._

I brush past her, and she pauses for a moment before she follows.

"Yes," I hear her sigh, voice lilting with a smile.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

I head outside, and there is a fucking _bounce house _in the backyard.

"Jesus _Christ,_" I mutter. The clear air washes away some of my fuzziness and suddenly I am hyper aware of the fact that _I just snogged Emily_, as if the truth of it is taking weight, settling with full magnitude in my mind.

"Naomi –" Emily steps to my side, and my guts clench, waiting for her to demand answers that I don't have. I glance at her, warily.

She bites of whatever she was going to say, her eyes wandering over mine for a long moment. I know that she can see the fear that hunches there, coiled and razor-sharp.

"Come on, then," she announces with a grin, nodding her head toward the bounce house. I relax slightly, because just like that she's waving another white flag; _Lower your weapons. _

So I follow her into the jumping castle, and she's shoving me playfully, laughing that husky laugh. I _uncoil. _Christ, this girl is a fucking Trojan Horse. I'm defenceless.

I shriek like a twelve year old as she shoves me against the pillowy wall, and we fall drunkenly, snickering. Her hands are resting against my arm, and all I can think is how warm and solid and _safe _her fingers feel against my skin. I don't want to shake them away.

Suddenly she rolls over so that she's above me, her arms caging me in, her thigh pressed warm against mine. Her hair falls in a crimson curtain around my face, shining strands tickling against my cheek. She turns those scalding irises on me again, and it's almost as if she's uttering the words into the space between us: _I won't hurt you. _

Our lips crash together with a desperate inhalation. She tugs at my bottom lip, tracing a line of electricity along it with her tongue, and I eagerly open my mouth to let her in. I snake my arms around her back, pulling her closer to me, and she gasps a soft sound against my mouth. Her body meshes perfectly against mine, leg slipping between my thighs. Everything about her is so fucking _soft_; the pillowy weight of her chest, the smooth expanse of her stomach pressing against mine, her tongue slipping silkily into my mouth, tracing against my lips.

Some part of my brain that is not a fucking liquid puddle right now is biting at me, reminding me that it's the middle of the afternoon and we're in a _fucking bounce house._

But Emily is tracing her fingers across my cheek, and the other slips behind my neck, her fingers twining in my hair. The worry fades momentarily as she nips lightly at my lip, our mouths sliding against each other with vigour.

But the discomfort grows louder and louder. Holy _shit, _I am making out with Emily Fitch in _the middle of the afternoon in a fucking bounce house. _

"Emily -" I gasp breathily, breaking away. But she continues to move her mouth against mine, and it's with effort that I pull away again. "Em, wait." I say, louder.

She pulls back, eyes fluttering open as she registers my words; sees the panic in my eyes.

"Shit, sorry," she gasps, bolting upright. Her absence leaves me cold.

I struggle upright. Heart pounding, I scan the empty yard. _Nobody saw, nobody saw, nobody saw _I chant desperately. That tendril of fear is back in full force, coiling in steely bands around my chest, my lungs. I crawl clumsily out of the bounce house and stagger to me feet.

"Naomi, wait," Emily cries, distraught. "Where are you going?"

I glance back at her sweet face, clenched tight with hurt. Those honey eyes see the icy glaze that has fallen back over mine, and I watch them fall, scolded, slipping from my face to stare at where her hands lay limp in her lap.

I leave her curled in the bounce-house and stagger back inside, vaguely wondering at the swarm of rowdy jocks that has appeared out of nowhere. I shove past them, batting away their pawing hands.

Still clad in those god-awful pyjamas, I shoulder my way out the front door and fucking leg it, the fragile staccato of my pulse hammering painfully in my throat.


	2. Chapter 2

***Authors Note: This is chapter is largely my own invention because there isn't much Naomily in the Freddie episode but I still wanted a filler chapter before I tackle the Godzilla that is Naomi's ep. Obviously it might take me a while to finish that one, because there is **_**so **_**much that happens that I still need to flesh out with my own story so that you aren't just reading the script. I might even split episode 6 into two chapters, I'm not sure. Stay with me, and I'll get it out ASAP. **

The morning light streaming through my window paints the underside of my eyelids crimson. I scrunch my eyes against the obnoxious glare, stubbornly resisting the reality of my unshifting wakefulness_. _Ten minutes of desperately trying to convince myself that I'm at least dozing later, I resign myself to consciousness and kick off my duvet with an angry thrash. I stare at the ceiling, a fine skin of goosebumps rising across my navel as the cool air caresses my bare flesh. Gazing at the flowery ceiling trim, the shutter of red still hasn't lifted from my vision – _red, red, red_; I am consumed by it. Tendrils of crimson glowing like coals in the sunlight, flaming strands tickling the skin of my cheek, coiling around my fingers as I clench her close to me, drinking each other in –

_Fuck_, Naomi. You were totally pissed. Cock-cruncher, remember? You're not _gay_ – people know that from, like, birth, don't they? The girls that pick hot-wheels over Barbie and hack their hair off with scissors in the bathroom mirror. Right? You're being a twat.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I glance at the screen. A text. From Effy.

Hang w me at waterpark? I hve spliff ;)

OK, that's slightly fucking random. I definitely wouldn't have put myself at the top of Effy Stonem's hangout list. Panda must be busy. I snort, remembering her mother's terrifying reaction when Thomas' name popped up. Yep. Panda will be _swimming_ in shit.

A small part of myself is quietly thrilled that Effy would invite me out. She's the kind of girl that waits _to _be invited out, you know? She's got this impenetrable shield of disinterest that just makes people flock after her like moths to a fucking bug zapper. It's bordering on narcissistic, really, but I can't help but find her undeniably cool.

That, and I am _craving_ some fucking spliff right now. I text back.

Fuck yes plz :P

I should probably put some clothes on, then.

**-o-o-o-**

"Welcome to my humble abode," Effy deadpans as we heave ourselves up onto the wooden platform floating off the shore of the waterpark.

"Spend a lot of time here?"

She's fiddling with something between the planks at the end of the platform. "Yeah," she says distractedly. "Rather not hang out with Mumsie at the moment."

She makes a triumphant noise as whatever she was digging at between the planks wriggles free. She chucks it my way and I catch it –a tiny bag of weed. I smile and begin deftly rolling a joint. Eff leans back and unscrews the bottle of vodka that was my contribution to this little get together. Flopping onto her back, she takes a serious chug and closes her eyes. I cock an eyebrow: it's barely eleven on a Sunday morning. Handing her the finished spliff for a light, I inspect her curiously; the charcoal eyeliner usually traced around her blue eyes is missing, the skin instead bruised with purplish black bags. Her skin is too pale. As if her face is reflecting too much light; like the sunlight can't break the surface, can't squeeze through the pores. She looks fucking _exhausted. _

I lean back so that I'm lying perpendicular to her, my legs over the edge of the platform so that my ankles are dangling in the mild water. She takes a toke and holds the smoke in her chest for a long moment before releasing it in a lazy exhalation. She passes to me and I take a hard pull, filling up my lungs till they feel as though they could burst. I hold it: my chest feels so full, so heavy – as if I could just hold onto that lungful of smoke, let it filter into my skull and drown out all the noise there in a pearly grey fog. But I can't fight the irrevocable pump of my lungs, so instead I blow out a narrow stream of smoke and watch it dissolve in the air.

We lay like that for a long while, just passing the shrinking spliff between us. That's what I love about Eff; the way she can just sit with silence. Most people act like silence is this viscous, clinging thing that needs to be dislodged with endless chatter, but with Eff you can just be with your thoughts. The quiet companionship is her silent way of saying _'I give a shit'_. I respect that, you know. She's genuine.

When the joint is burnt to a stub, I flick it into the water and open my eyes to squint at the blindingly white overcast sky.

"So, are you going to tell me what's up?" I ask quietly.

She blows out a sigh and stretches her hands in front of her face, caging the sky with the bars of her interlocked fingers. She doesn't answer for a long stretch of minutes, just moves her hands about like she's playing shadow puppets.

"Cook fucked Panda." The confession is whispery, almost inaudible. Wait, _what? _I lift my head to peer at her, surprised by the transparent hurt in her voice. She's chewing at her lip, agitated. Effy really does have a soft spot for that barmy girl.

A few seconds later I actually process what she just said. Fucking _hell__, _that is not a pleasant image.

"Shit."

"Pretty much," she mumbles, tapping at a cigarette carton. She lights one and places the sleek cylinder between her lips. She takes a drag, blowing it out with a weary sigh. I touch my fingers to her arm; quiet reassurance.

We lapse into silence again. Maybe that's why I felt I could tell her. Like that pillowy silence was a time capsule, swallowing our words and muting them to the rest of the world.

"Emily kissed me."

A minute, stretched long and thin.

"Shit."

A rush of gratitude. Eff fucking _gets _it. That sometimes you just need to let your thoughts into the air and have someone quietly take up the weight. That sometimes you just need to give the syllables flesh, let them touch the open air.

"Pretty much," I smile, taking the offered cigarette.

**-o-o-o-**

Monday has a coiled mass of nerves anchoring its barbed tendrils into my stomach. My strategy basically consists of pretending that I did _not _stick my tongue down Emily's throat on Friday night. Makes life much simpler. But still I can't stop my stupid fingers from fluttering at myself in the mirror, carefully combing my hair until it lies sleek and straight, dabbing at my eyeliner obsessively.

At college, I chain my bike and shoulder my way through the doors, clenching the strap of my bag across my chest like armour. In the common room, Eff gives me a small smile from beside a strangely subdued Panda. I scan the room for red, and my heart jumps to my throat as I catch a flash of crimson. But it's only Katie, flirting outrageously with Freds. For a moment I am frozen with macabre fascination at the sight of Katie Fitch in her element– she's practically dripping all over him, pawing him with her polished claws at every opportunity. Fucking _hell._ I turn from the grotesque sight and beeline for an empty couch. Crossing my legs, I carefully arrange my features into my _fuck off _face.

Shit. There she is. She catches my eye and pauses at the doorway. _Shit. _I flick my eyes carelessly to the other side of the room and cross my arms, cranking the _fuck off _signal. Play it cool, Naomi.

And then she stomps over and plops down on the couch next to me and it all goes to fuck.

"Alright, Naoms?" She asks lightly, nudging my side with her elbow. I blink at the nickname, biting off the stupid smile that wants to creep across my face.

"Um," I stammer lamely, nervously avoiding that honey brown gaze. "Yeah."

Fucking hell. This girl is a flamethrower to my ice fortress. I clear my throat and flick at my fringe, letting my gaze settle on the other side of the room. _Get your shit together._

At that point Cook explodes into the room and I have never been so happy to see that obnoxious fucker.

"Hey-O! What's crackin' kiddie winks?" he shouts, baring that shark tooth smile. He swaggers over to Effy and Panda and plops down between them, draping his arms across their shoulders. Jesus. He really is a tosser.

"Fuck off, Cook," Effy snarls, shaking off his arm.

"Wha-?" Cook demands angrily, his face falling in boyish disappointment. Effy throws him a repulsed glance and stalks towards our couch, taking the seat next to Emily. A brief flicker of realisation passes across Cook's face and he whips his arm from Panda's shoulders. Well, fuck me. That's the closest I've ever seen James Cook come to remorse. But the scolded expression vanishes in a brief second.

"Well," he announces loudly, clapping his palms together. "My man Uncle Keith is having a trivia night at his pub this arvo, and I think you should all march your little arses down there, yeah?"

He scans the silent room, brow furrowed.

"Eff?" he prods. She glances at him, eyes steely, and surprises us all when she agrees.

"Yeah, alright." She smirks haughtily. He howls like a wolf at the victory, clapping his hands with a laugh.

"Katiekins?" he grins, turning.

"Danny's taking me out," she sniffs, throwing a sultry glance at Freddie, who is too busy staring at Effy with fucking puppy eyes to notice. "Sorry."

"Panda-pops?"

Pandora shoots a terrified glance at Effy. "Don't think so, Cookie," she whimpers.

"Emilio? Naomikins?"

I wince at the stupid nicknames. Hurriedly, I try to stitch together a semi-decent excuse.

"Yeah, alright." Em pipes up brightly. I glance at her, surprised. She meets my gaze, honey-and-chocolate eyes wide and pleading. She nudges me again, and I can feel my cheeks colour at the casual contact.

"Come on, Naoms. Please?" She begs, curling her mouth into a tiny crescent-moon smile that makes my stomach flip. I blink at the nickname, the corner of my mouth lifting against my will.

"Um, yeah, alright." I mutter before I can stop myself. _Pathetic_, Naomi. My plan has gone to total shit. But she's beaming at me and it's like light touching my skin, and I can't stop the stupid smile that breaks across my face any more than I can stop my heartbeat, which is thumping hard and loud and terrified in my chest.

**-o-o-o-**

In English, Miss Wesson has resorted to using her clenched fist as a puppet to answer her own bloody questions about _Hamlet. _Which I _have _read, by the way. I'm afraid I just can't indulge a woman who has dubbed her right hand 'Gerald'. I mean, for Christ's _sake. _

"I've read it!" Panda pipes up. "It was great!"

Miss Wesson beams like she might actually give a shit about teenager's understanding of Shakespeare.

"I didn't really understand it, though," Panda confesses, her face falling. "Did the ghost do it after all, or was it Voldemort? He's a right beast, in't he?"

I clap a hand to my mouth, choking on a snort of laughter. Next to me, Eff giggles softly – she couldn't hold a grudge against that girl if she tried.

"Um, I think you've mixed up your books again, Panda." Fuck, that voice. Dusk and black coffee. I glance at her – fingers curled small and slender on the side of her face, fiery crimson hair falling in a neat fringe above those chocolate syrup eyes, mouth curled into that tiny, bitten off smile that makes my heart skip. She's _beautiful_. The thought rings in my head with deafening clarity; the simple _truth _of it hitting me like a punch in the chest.

Leaning back in my chair, I take a long, slow breath through my nose and try to uncoil some of the nervous tension that has taken permanent residency in my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Freddie sitting ramrod straight with this rabbit-eyed panic as if someone has just shoved something sharp up his arse. I glance at the table: Effy has her fingers resting gently against his, lightly tracing small circles across the back of his hand. Well, _that's _new. Freds catches my eye and I smile, giving him a sly wink. He looks petrified. I have to bite back a smirk: Freddie McClair, 'The Lips'himself, nervous as a twelve year old holding hands on the playground. I can't help but feel a little bitter – it's so _uncomplicated. _Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. What's the drama? It's selfish and small-minded, I know. But still - I'm jealous.

"Anyone else?" Miss Wesson asks hopefully.

"Hamlet's basically a teenage boy," I offer with a smirk, glancing at Freddie. "He's got all these _desires_, but he doesn't have the bottle to reach out for them."

I sigh dramatically and rest my head on my fist, now speaking directly to Freds, who has met my gaze with his big lost-puppy eyes. "So he goes mad and wanks off about Ophelia, and ends up _so _boring somebody has to kill him!"

"Um, I'm not sure that's right," Miss Wesson stutters confusedly. "There's no _wanking _in _Hamlet_."

"Yeah, there is," I counter, deadpanning. "Only they call it 'soliloquizing'."

I lift my fingers to form air quotes around 'soliloquizing' and am rewarded with a bark of laughter from Cook.

"Nice one, blondie," he guffaws. "She's funny."

But the compliment is meaningless from Cook. I flick my eyes at Emily; she's looking at me, laughing that quiet, husky laugh – my stomach swarms with butterflies, and I glance away nervously.

Jesus, Naomi. You are such a _fucking _hypocrite.

**-o-o-o-**

After college, I unchain my bike and wheel it beside me – it's only a short distance to Keith's pub, so I may as well walk.

"Naomi! Wait up!"

Shit. I turn to see Emily jogging toward me.

"I thought we could walk together," she says with a smile. "I asked Eff but she said she had to go meet someone. She was a bit out of it, to be honest."

I frown, worried. She was pretty upset about the whole Cook and Panda thing. I hope she doesn't do anything stupid. But then I bite back a smirk – it's Effy fucking Stonem, _of course _she will do something stupid.

"She's alright," I say with certainty, smiling softly. James Cook couldn't knock that girl over.

I push my bike forward, and Emily walks alongside me. We walk in silence for a little while, navigating our way out of the noisy crowd of students. As the clamour fades behind us, the only sound is the soft hiss of the bike chain.

"So… You and Eff?" Emily prompts, voice light.

I glance at her sharply. She's _jealous. _It's clear as day in her voice.

"We're mates, yeah? She's cool." I snap, voice sharper than I meant it to be. She jolts slightly at the venom in my voice. Something is building in my chest – anger, or fear; maybe both. _Jealousy _is not OK. _Jealousy_ would logically suggest there is some kind of relationship between us to warrant _being fucking jealous. _

"Yeah, cool." She mutters in a small voice, and the hurt there makes the heat drain from my chest. I clear my throat, suddenly stumbling to try and lighten the mood again.

"She's a good listener," I confess, staring ahead. In my periphery I see Emily snap to attention at the softness of my voice. God, I must be giving her whiplash. Why does she bother with me, anyway?

"She gets it. She can just let you _be, _you know?" I continue. I flick my eyes at her briefly - embarrassed by my rambling - and she's smiling, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

"Yeah," she agrees quietly, pushing her crimson fringe out of her eyes. She bites her lip, glancing away nervously, and suddenly I realise that everyone has their own little ice-fortress, even warm little Emily. Everyone has a weakness; a tender spot that we are terrified of having bruised.

"Katie just always wants me to be _her_, you know?" she blurts, clenching at the strap of her bag. "We're not the same. But it's like - like I'm not good enough for her, the way I am."

Her voice trails of huskily, and I can tell by her clenched jaw that she's swallowing tears. Christ. She really does care about what her sister thinks. Without thinking, I stop and touch her arm, drawing her eyes to me.

"Emily," I say firmly, and I see her flinch at my steely tone. "You _are _good enough. Okay?"

She is silent for a moment, eyes searching my face for a long handful of seconds.

"Okay," she smiles sadly.

**-o-o-o-**

"Ladies!" Cook bellows as we step into the smoky fog of Keith's pub. He bounces over to us, pulling us into a rough embrace and planting a slobbery kiss on my cheek.

"Fuck off, Cook," I laugh, pushing him away roughly and wiping my cheek.

"If you say so, Naomikins," he grins smuttily. "Right! You girls are a team, yeah?"

He steers us towards an empty table, already equip with three pints of beer. "Sorry girls, but you don't stand a chance against my man, Jay. And I already know what I want as my prize!"

I shake my head. The boy's a tosser, but I can't help but smile as he wiggles his eyebrows at us. "Sorry, Cook. We're not going anywhere near your Crayola dick."

"If you say so, Nomie." He leans forward and whispers hotly in my ear, his breath reeking of alcohol: "They all come to the Cookie Monster in the end."

I shove his shoulder and he laughs, bouncing back towards where Freddie and JJ are sitting.

"Where's Effy?" I shout at his back but he just shrugs, leaping onto the table to reach his seat, making the glasses slosh precariously.

I turn back to Emily. She's blushing, her face almost the same colour as her hair.

"He's a fucking tosser," I laugh, my tone reassuring. She smiles and takes a sip of her drink.

"Right!" a man's voice bellows. I glance up with a scowl to see 'Uncle Keith' – a great, sweaty pig of a man – heave himself to the front of the bar. "Welcome to Uncle Keith's Trivia Night! There's no point wasting any more bollocking time, so we may as well get this shit show started, eh?"

I cock an eyebrow at Emily, who is struggle to keep a straight face. Charming, I mouth.

"—team with the most points wins, I don't need to fucking tell you. Winner gets to claim this here fine pile of prime cuts." He continued, slapping his greasy palm against the pile of meat sitting on a platter on the bar. Christ, I wouldn't want to eat anything that's been near those ogre paws.

"Question one. What is the name of the traditional tribal headwear crafted from jiipjapa leaves?" Keith demands lazily, as if he's asking us to find the fucking square root of 144.

I glance at Emily incredulously. "What _the fuck_?" I demand in a loud whisper. She bites her knuckle, choking back a laugh. Suddenly she holds out a palm in mock epiphany, as if she's all of a sudden remembered the answer. Tugging the blank sheet of paper towards her, she scribbles down an answer with purpose, tongue between her lips in a convincing show of concentration. She slides the sheet back to me proudly, and I read her answer.

Q1: 52.

I loud snort of laughter breaks past my lips before I can muffle it behind my palms.

"You fuckin' right?" Cook barks, annoyed. We glance up guiltily, nodding mutely as we reassemble our composure. I mean, it's Keith's Trivia Night – this is serious shit.

The questions become increasingly ridiculous, as do our answers. I finish my pint and start on Effy's unclaimed one. As the pleasant warmth of the alcohol seeps through my limbs, I find my eyes wandering haphazardly over Emily, my gaze stumbling to look away before she catches me ogling at her. She's wearing this downy, oversized sweater that hangs past her fingers and makes her seem tiny. It's moments like this that I realise how different from her sister she really is – when her leopard-print twin isn't breathing down her neck, telling how to act and how to dress and what to do, Emily Fitch puts on a stretched old jumper and makes it look _fucking good._

"…The only man to survive three attempts to hang him was John Babbacombe Lee at Exeter Jail. On what dates were the attempts made?"

"Jesus," Emily sighs, glancing over to where JJ is scribbling furiously at the boy's answer sheets. That boy is a living Encyclopaedia, I swear.

"Keith, what's up with these questions?" I demand grumpily. I don't like being beat.

"Do you want to be disqualified?" Keith sneers, his mouth pressed against the microphone so that his voice is thick and distorted. God, he's repulsive. "What were the dates?"

Emily scribbles on our answer sheet: Monday, Wednesday and Sunday, and I smile. Her handwriting is so soft and looping; the way she lazily traces big, looping tails on her y's –

_Fuck, Naomi._ I put down the half-finished beer and push it away from me firmly. I really need to stop drinking around this girl.

I glance up as the door swings open, allowing a brief gust of crisp air that is quickly swallowed by the stale smog of the pub. It's Effy, and some beefy older bloke trailing behind her.

"Hey Eff, what's up?" Emily pipes up brightly.

"You alright?" Eff murmurs flatly. Shit, she doesn't look so crash hot. In fact, she looks completely toasted; her eyes have that shiny glaze that they get when she's popped a few pills.

"Yeah, fine," Emily replies, her brow creased in concern. She nods at the guy hanging back behind her. "Who's this?"

Effy stares at us blankly for a moment. "What is it?" she sighs, turning to the guy who is looking mildly pissed off.

"Mike." He replies firmly, raising an eyebrow.

"Right," she mutters, pulling him towards the bar, brushing off Keith who attempts to steer them towards a trivia table.

"Romantic," I sigh sarcastically. Worriedly, I try to catch Effy's eye, but she's draping herself across 'Mike' and studiously avoiding our corner of the room.

"Naoms –" Small fingers touch my arm and I flinch away instinctively, shying away from her touch like she's got the fucking plague or something. Awkwardly, she curls her hand into a fist. "Umm, is she alright?"

I glance back toward the bar. 'Mike' has vanished to the bathroom and Eff is staring into a pint of beer like she wants to drown herself in it. Something's really rattled her, and I don't think it's just the Cook and Panda fiasco.

"Yeah, I should go talk to her," I mutter, avoiding those chocolate eyes, a blush creeping over my cheeks as I mentally curl into a ball at my complete fucking dorkiness. God, Naomi. You snog her and then act like she's got fucking cooties. Pathetic. I dart from my chair and beeline for the bar, partially to check on Eff but mostly to escape Emily.

"Eff," I sigh. She jolts from her inspection of the bottom of her glass. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Having a fucking drink, obviously," she tries to snap, but the annoyance fades to fatigue.

"What's this about then?" I demand, swiping her drink and taking a swig. She smiles faintly, and stares over my shoulder in reply. I follow her gaze: Freddie. Christ.

I sigh. "Eff –"

"Let's just get out of here. Smoke something." She says, cutting me off.

"Just _be_, Eff," I say quietly. _Don't be scared. _She looks at me for a long moment, then flicks a pointed gaze to where Emily sits alone at the table.

"Right." She says quietly, but the word is laced with venom. My gaze falls as if she's slapped me. _The truth hurts, Naomikins_. You're a fucking hypocrite.

"Come on," Eff murmurs, tugging at my elbow. She begins to head towards the street-front entrance, but I tug at her arm and lead her toward the back door instead. Stupidly, I glance over my shoulder. I wish I hadn't. Emily's eyes are locked onto me, those chocolate pools tight with hurt, and something unfamiliar – _anger, _that little heart shaped mouth a tight line as she watches me slink away. I want to disappear, fold into myself like the spineless creature I am and never have to see the disappointment in those brown eyes again. But instead I drop my gaze, slamming shut the gates to my ice fortress and leaving her with the familiar sting of frostbite.


	3. Chapter 3

**This is ****Part 1 ****of Naomi's episode. In case you haven't noticed already, I totally ship (*broship) Naomi and Effy's friendship. Struggling with this one to keep it a reasonable length – it's difficult to find a balance between original content and script, and knowing where to prune to keep it concise…. *sigh* I'm working on it.**

_Brown eyes: like dark loam, like cocoa and toffee. Eyelashes like moth wings, fluttering apart to reveal eyes dewy with sleep. She smiles when she sees me watching her, the corners of her mouth lifting into that shy little crescent – the one that looks as if she's biting back a grin, like she's wary of letting the enormity of this simple moment break past her lips in case it should burn our skin. _

_I kiss her, and it's the easiest thing in the world. Lips interlocking seamlessly, tongues battling each other. She pulls me closer, and we're fused together perfectly. The rest of the world fades to black and white, blurring and smudging until this moment is all that remains, a razor shard of clarity and blazing colour. There is nothing but her pale skin beneath my palms, her hand clenching desperately at the back of my neck, her mouth trailing fire down my throat, her fingers slipping silkily inside me, my breath hot against the crook of her neck as I am swallowed by wave after wave of electricity –_

My eyes flutter open and I'm staring at the flaking plaster of my floral-trim ceiling, heart thumping hard in my chest.

_Fuck._

**-o-o-o-**

I'm giving myself an intervention. It's Sunday; college is tomorrow and I need to get this shit under control.

"I'm not gay," I mutter to the ceiling, and then I take a swig of vodka, like an exclamation point.

It's just a phase. Drink. I'm being stupid. Drink. You barely know the girl. Drink.

I sigh dramatically at the ceiling. Now I'm just pissed off _and _tipsy. I grope at my nightstand for my mobile and flip it open. I scroll to 'EFF' in my contacts and click dial.

"Naoms," Effy answers, her voice strangely distant, as if she's holding the phone too far away from her face.

"Eff," I sigh. "Do you want to hang out or something? I'm going crazy – "

"Hey, sorry Naoms –" A giggle. "Fuck off Cook! Naoms, I'm a bit busy at the minute, yeah? I'm sorry. I'll call you."

She hangs up, and I drop my phone onto my bed in repulsion. Fucking Effy. I swear that girl is addicted to shagging. Albeit, she makes it kind of classy, but still. She and Cook have their similarities.

I flop backwards again, frustration bubbling in my chest. _Fuck this. _I can't stare at this stupid off-white ceiling any longer, holing myself inside like some pathetic, love-sick kid.

I take another swig of vodka, steeling myself on the aching burn of the liquid travelling down my throat. I'm going to Keith's.

**-o-o-o-**

"Thanks, Christina…" I mumble as the gaunt woman slides me my vodka tonic.

"No worries, love." She says kindly, leaning across the bar to give my hand a little squeeze. A small part of me is perpetually outraged at the blatant disregard for legal drinking age at Keith's bar, but that small part is spectacularly outweighed by the much larger part of me craving a fucking drink.

I sip at the mild drink, head already foggy from this morning's self-help session. I keep my phone where it's visible on the table, mentally crossing my fingers for it to buzz with a text from Effy. I'm craving her quiet level-headedness to snap me out of this weird funk. I feel like I'm miming a fucking mid-life crisis. I'm losing my shit.

I finish my tonic and signal Christina for another.

"You alright, hun?" she prods lightly as she pours my drink.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I snap half-heartedly, taking a sip of my filled glass. _God, Naomi_. You're being an arsehole. Suddenly Christina grins, looking at something past my shoulder.

"Well, looks like some of your friends are here. Maybe they'll cheer you up a bit, eh?"

I peer grouchily behind me, and my stomach falls to my feet as a head of crimson hair bobs inside from the drizzly grey afternoon outside.

Fuck. _Fuck._ I stand to leave. I can't fucking deal with this right now.

But slowly my brain absorbs the site in front of me: the slathering of leopard print wardrobe, the heavy plastering of makeup, the generous serving of cleavage. _It's just Katie_, I realise with relief and a modicum of disappointment that I aggressively snuff out.

"Hello, Naomi," she says coolly as she strides over to the bar, that meathead Danny trailing behind her, openly ogling her ass.

"Katie," I nod, warily sitting back down on the edge of my stool. Maybe she'll play nice.

"'Ello, 'ello!" Danny crows, throwing an arm around Katie's shoulders and leering at me. He chuckles the sleaziest fucking chuckle I've ever heard and stares openly at my chest. I make a repulsed sound a tug the floral over shirt I'm wearing closed at the front. Fucking pig.

"Don't bother, sweety, she's a fucking _muff-muncher_," Katie sniffs icily. Christ. Katie Fitch doesn't play nice, Naomi, you daft cow. Her idiot of a boyfriend hoots at the news, pumping his fists like he's at a football game or something.

"Nice one! You should come down and watch the boys practice, yeah? We can all hit the showers –"

"Fuck you, Katie," I mutter, finishing my tonic in a few big gulps and standing to leave. I can't be bothered with this shit. _Don't you understand? _I feel like screaming. _I'm fucking drowning here! _

Obviously dissatisfied with my lacklustre response, Katie grabs my arm and yanks me close to her.

"You stay the _fuck _away from my sister, Naomi," She growls quietly, those sticky, lip-gloss lips just inches away from my face. As much as I'm used to Katie's bitchiness, the venom in her voice hits me like a slap. I shrug out of her grip and walk quickly out the door, face burning.

"Don't fucking cry." I tell myself sternly as I march along the footpath, angrily wiping away the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. _What the fuck, Naomi? _I'm being pathetic, but I can't help it. I feel shaky and strangely bruised: one of those days where suddenly all the shit in your life just lands on your chest with bone crushing weight. My mum is too busy worrying about strangers to worry about me. Katie is a fucking cow. I can't shake those goddamned brown eyes from my mind. It's starting to piss down rain and now I'm wandering alone in the middle of the afternoon in Bristol's shitty weather; upset, kind of drunk and _achingly _lonely.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I flip it open: Effy. About fucking time.

"Hey," I mumble, my voice thick. Damnit. I clear my throat, trying to lighten my tone.

"Naoms," Eff says worriedly. "Look, sorry about earlier. Meet me at the park?"

"Yeah, alright," I reply, my voice falsely light.

As I head toward the park, I try to scrape together a modicum of composure. _Snap out of it, Naomi. _I manage to dry my eyes and a quick glance in my phone camera shows me that they're a little bloodshot, but I might be able to pass it off.

"Naomi!" Effy calls from where she is perched at the top of the play equipment. It's still drizzling, which seems to have vacated the park of kids. I climb up the equipment, the shitty tread of my Converse slipping precariously on the wet metal, and sit down next to Eff.

"You look like shit, Naoms," Effy says, eyes widening. Well, fuck. I must look worse than I thought.

"Thanks," I mutter dryly, picking at the flaking paint of the platform.

"Naoms, what the fuck happened? Why are you upset?"

"Nothing!" I deny shakily, my voice buckling. Christ, Naomi. Way to sell it.

Effy sighs, pulling a carton out of her jacket pocket. She hands me a cigarette, and I purse it between my lips gratefully, leaning in for a light. We sit in silence for a while, the only sound the quiet crackling of the cigarettes as we pull in lungful's of smoke. The rain is picking up, and while the faded plastic roof above us keeps us mostly dry, the platform isn't big enough for us to sit cross-legged and the knees of my jeans are quickly soaked by the rivulets of water falling where my legs hang over the edge.

I look out at the gorgeous wood edging the park, iridescent jade-green in the rain, and suddenly my composure buckles: as if I was holding my breath and couldn't wait any longer to exhale. Tears begin streaking down my cheeks - I wipe at my eyes angrily, but they only fall faster. I take a desperate pull on my cigarette, trying to dissolve the lump in my throat, but it's solid as stone.

"Shit, Naoms…" Eff mutters, her voice shocked. She places a hand on my arm.

"It's nothing," I gasp. "I'm just being stupid –"

She pulls me toward her, and I instinctively try to pull back, but her grip is like steel and I relent, folding into her skinny chest. I'm sobbing like a fucking baby, but Eff just wraps her arms around me, combing the hair out of my eyes and wiping at my cheek with her thumb. She waits for me to tell her what's wrong, but the truth sticks in my throat: that this _thing _with Emily is rubbing me raw, that I feel like I'm losing control, as if something like gravity is pulling me toward an edge I can't see over and I can't help but claw desperately against it until my fingernails are bloody.

"I don't know who I am anymore." I whisper so quietly I don't even know if Effy hears. If she did, she doesn't say anything – just squeezes me tighter. I close my eyes, focusing on the soft thud of her heartbeat at my ear until the ache in my chest gradually subsides.

**-o-o-o-**

Somebody's _fucking foot _is in my mouth. I splutter awake, pushing the offending limb away from my face.

"Jesus Christ!" I shout, jolting into a sitting position. There is a pair of filthy, sock covered feet on my pillow. At the end of my bed, a scruffy middle-aged guy blinks at me sleepily. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm a friend of your mums," he answers, swallowing a yawn. "Had nowhere to kip. Sweetheart, isn't she? Even if she doesn't believe I am the actual Messiah."

Jesus Christ. This is a step too fucking far. "Mum!" I shriek, anger bubbling hot in my stomach. "Mum!"

"Who the hell does she think she is? This is bloody ridiculous, does nobody understand privacy?" I growl as I stumble from bed, covering my nude body with my arms. I'm too angry to care if this delusional hippie sees me naked. In fact, I've become so accustomed to the weirdos inhabiting our house for the past couple of months that I've almost begun to treat them more like animals that intelligent beings: shooing them away from furniture, chasing behind them to stop them spilling something on the carpet, scolding them with simple, one syllable commands – like misbehaving puppies, but considerably less cute.

"I'm naked." I say flatly, throwing the guy a barbed glance. "I sleep naked."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," he replies, still cozied up in my bed like it's not _my fucking bed. _"You look like your mum, actually. You've even got the same haircut she has." He tacks on, nodding casually at my minge. In an immense show of willpower, I stride toward the bathroom instead of uppercutting the hairy smartarse who has rolled over to continue dozing like that is even a _remotely_ OK thing to do.

"Get the fuck out!" I shout at him as I slam the door behind me.

Once I'm dressed, I storm into the kitchen to find my fuckwit of a mother. She's sitting at the table, solemnly contemplating the patriarchal nature of bananas with Lynn, one of the few live-ins that I can actually tolerate.

"Mum," I growl. "Has anyone ever told you what a _complete fucking cow _you are?"

"Plenty of people," she smiles. "Have a look at this will you, love? We're thinking about banning it from the group shopping list –"

"There's a man. In my room. In my bed!" I say incredulously. Is it too much to ask for a little motherly concern? Or maybe just some basic respect for me as a living, breathing human being?

"He had nowhere else to go. It's called communal living, sweetie –"

"God. You are so _irritating_." I snap, snatching the banana from the table, peeling it and taking a dramatic bite. _I'm your daughter! _I want to scream. Beneath the anger, a tiny, infantile part of me is just craving the days before mum's midlife crisis – when it was just the two of us, and she would fuss over me and push the hair out of my eyes and I could tell her anything and she would listen like it was the most important thing in the world.

Instead I storm out of the kitchen, eyes aching with tiredness and a sour taste in my mouth. Fucking_ Mondays. _

**-o-o-o-**

At college, I chain my bike and join the jostling crowd of students heading toward the main entrance, cranking my _fuck off _signal to nuclear. As we begin to climb the stairs, I catch a glimpse of red in the corner of my vision. Emily is waiting at the edge of the crowd, craning her neck to search for someone – Katie is missing, so that means she's most likely waiting for _me. _My stomach does that familiar vertigo-free-fall thing and I swallow thickly. _No, Naomi. _I cringe at the memory of Sunday's emotional train wreck – I don't want to go there again. So I avert my eyes and dive further into the crowd, skipping stairs in long strides until I surface at the other side of the throng.

I make a beeline for the staircase near the parking lot, where I've made it a morning ritual to smoke a cigarette and chat with my politics teacher, Kieran. By 'chat' I mean that we mostly just cuss out Roundview College and all of its stonehead inhabitants, but still – it's therapeutic.

Kieran is nowhere to be seen. I perch on the stairs, pulling my carton of Marlboro's out of my backpack and lighting one while I wait. Truth is, I could face the day without the cigarette – it's the sardonic conversations with Kieran that I would miss_. _It sounds cruel, but it's almost like I sap off of Kieran's miserable dissatisfaction with being a teacher to remind myself that _I'm _not stuck here - that there are bigger and better things waiting beyond Roundview fucking College. I spot him loping toward me from the staff room with his great, bearish gait. He smiles shyly, shoulders hunched – that's the other thing: he's just _nice. _I like him. I've probably got some horrendously cliché daddy-complex, but a small, furtive part of me can't help but daydream what it would be like if Kieran was my dad.

When the bell rings, Kieran shoos me off to assembly with a cryptic _You'll like this _that piques my interest. In the common room I make a beeline for Eff and Panda. I stop a few feet short, smirking curiously at Eff, who is gazing distantly at something with this kind of dreamy expression that looks out of place on her usually stony face. I follow her gaze to see Freddie gazing sadly back at her and bite back a chuckle. Effy Stonem: lovesick. Christ.

"What's going on there?" I smirk, sitting down.

"Nothing." Effy says quickly, breaking out of her reverie. Panda opens her mouth to say something, but Effy cuts her off. "Shutup."

She glances over her shoulder at Cook, sitting at the opposite side of the room with a flock of beauty students around him. Effy rolls her eyes and departs to go and scare off the pack of overly friendly girls. I smirk at Panda: Eff will share spliff, but nothing else. She might not want to say she's dating Cook, but he's her property now – it's the fine print in the _Shagging Effy Stonem _contract.

"Naomi!" Oh, fucking _hell. _I glance up to see Emily striding toward me with a pleased little grin on her face. "Hey!"

I clench my jaw. _Can't she just leave me be? _I think tiredly, but I know a large part of me secretly abhors the idea. I'm a walking contradiction. I blink at her blankly and duck my head, trying desperately to swallow the weird emotions still stuck in my throat like shards of glass after Sunday's _episode. _When she's around me that implacable sensation that something is _shifting _grows stronger and I just want to fucking leg it.

She looks slightly hurt at my silence, her eyes dropping to her feet. I didn't mean to be cruel: I open my mouth to say something to remedy my rudeness, but at that moment the lights are switched off and the packed common room is plunged into darkness. The ancient light projector whirs to life and there's fucking _Doug_, clad in a sash of red fabric and waving a flashlight beneath his chin.

"In ancient times before the now, there was an almighty blazing row, between two kingdoms _tall and proud_." He warbles, waving his hands about for effect. "How to decide this without blood?"

"Right, settle down everyone..." The lights flicker back on and the college director shuffles tiredly to the centre of the room. Doug turns off his flashlight, face painted in a childlike disappointment that almost makes me feel sorry for him. "Thankyou, Doug. Fascinating introduction."

"OK, it's simple. We want a student president." She begins to stroll around the room, reading tiredly from a sheet of paper. "This will be a democratically elected position, to proactively seek excellence in matters of _student representation._" She jostles roughly through a group of chatty students. "And you, my little _education consumers_, will select this president by _vote._"

"The election is next week. If you wish to stand, please see Doug after assembly…"

Emily turns to me excitedly, nodding her head at the droning college director. "You should stand!" she whispers, grinning.

"What? No," I hiss, surprised.

The director strides from the room, Doug in tow, and everybody begins to disperse toward classrooms before the first bell rings. I stand awkwardly, not wanting to rush away from Emily and hurt her feelings again, but not wanting to stick around for a foot-in-my-mouth chat either.

"Naomi!" I turn at the breathless voice to see a ruddy-faced Kieran staggering beneath a pile of exercise books. "Naomi, do you think you could grab the bollocking lesson-plan from the resource office? I've bloody forgotten it –"

"Sure, Kieran," I smile, biting back a laugh at seeing the bear of a man so flustered.

"You're a fucking life saver, missy," he says thankfully, staggering away down the hall. Chuckling, I turn toward the resource office, secretly thankful for the excuse to duck away from Emily.

"I'll come!" She pipes up behind me, like she's reading my fucking mind. I smile despite myself. _Of course you will. _

"So, are you going to run?" She asks we head down the hallway, prodding me in the arm.

"You've got to be joking. I'm not gonna help run this place." I say incredulously.

"I don't get it. Why not? You really care about this stuff."

"What _stuff_?" I snap, because she shouldn't know what _stuff _I care about. My ice fortress isn't meant to have windows.

"Uh; _equality, environmentalism, feminism,_" she rattles off as if I've just asked her the most obvious question in the world. "I-don't-ever-want-to-shut-my-mouth-ism." She tacks on with a smile.

We duck into the resource office and I yank the lesson plan angrily from Kieran's pigeon-hole, annoyance bubbling in my chest partly because I don't want people thinking I'm a try hard hippie like my mother and partly because she's _completely fucking right _and I know it.

"Great," I snap. "You're making me sound _great_."

"Come on," Emily implores, voice lilting with a smile. "Come on, you know about politics, you're always talking about it."

I stop and turn, locking her with a stare. "Emily," I say sternly. "We've had about three conversations our entire lives. So the idea that you know that I'm always talking about _anything _is a bit ridiculous." Not to mention that the better part of one of those _conversations _was largely non-verbal.

I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. The smile slips from her face and her eyes turn opaque with hurt, her gaze dropping to the ground.

"OK." She says meekly, pressing her lips together. _Fuck._ Her voice is husky with hurt and it hits me in the chest like a punch. She turns and begins to walk away, dejected.

"Morning ladies!" Cook exclaims, appearing at my side. Emily shoots him a withering look over her shoulder and disappears down the hall. He raises an eyebrow at the obvious tension between us. "Love is all around."

"Piss off," I sigh, not in the mood for his antics. My chest is sinking with guilt - I feel nauseous.

"Naomikins!" he cries, following me as I turn to leave. He skips to stand in front of me. I stop and blow out an annoyed sigh, raising an eyebrow drily. "I've been thinking. You should see more cock."

"Pardon?" I say icily, shocked by his complete and utter douchebaggery.

"Me and you. We should go to it. Know what I'm saying?"

"Excuse me?" Surely there are a few functioning brain cells in his vacuous skull capable of realising what a complete arse he's being. "Go to it?"

"Definitely." He smiles smuttily.

"You've got about as much chance of fucking me as you do of becoming the democratically elected president of this dump." I snarl venomously, anger boiling in my chest.

"I enjoy a challenge!" He crows, grinning. Wait, what the fuck? "Babe, you've got a deal!"

He strides off, grinning. "What?" I call, panicking. "No, no, no, I didn't mean it like that! I'm not going to –"

He disappears around the corner, laughing. Christ. I chew my lip uncertainly – surely he's joking, he's not _actually _going to apply. But I can never be sure, he's _unpredictable _– I'd love to pin Cook as just another horny, run-of-the-mill douchebag, but there is a razor-sharp intelligence behind his eyes that he tries so desperately to mask. He's hard to read.

I lean against the wall of lockers, pinching at my lip nervously. Maybe I _should _run. I mean, Roundview is a shithole, definitely. And this student president thing is probably just a load of bullshit to parade under the noses of the school inspection board, but still… I'd be good at it. I know I would.

I head toward my politics class, but stop curiously as I pass a gaudy sign reading 'ELECTION REGISTRATION' tacked onto the window of a classroom. I hesitate, then clamber onto a box of printer paper near the door and peer in. I can't see over the edge of the stupid poster – I lean forward on the balls of my feet, craning to see into the room. I catch a brief glimpse of Doug and the distinctive, sharp-edged form of _fucking Cook _leaning over the desk –

And then the door opens and I fall onto my arse, hard. _Fuck_, that hurt. I look up to see some pimply guy glaring down at me, wearing a fucking _blazer_. Jesus.

"Girls. Stupid." He snarls disdainfully. "You're all so stupid."

Excuse me? I prop myself up and glare at him witheringly, opening my mouth to illuminate him on what a complete arselicker he is, but he darts away before I can speak. Coward.

A raucous laugh. Oh _fuck me_. Cook leans against the doorjamb, grinning at the sight of me sprawled across the floor like a fucking moron.

"I can see your knickers." He guffaws, pointing. I tug my dress down and turn the glare to him.

"You? President?" I demand.

"Why do people keep saying that?" he snaps, face falling for a brief second. Then that shark-tooth smile is back, sharp as glass: "Me, President. You, my slave."

He thrusts his hips lewdly and I roll my eyes, getting to my feet.

"Why you fighting Naomi?" He demands, stepping closer and looking me dead in the eye. I squirm: something about his proximity always makes me nervous. There's something about him that's sharp and undiluted – that makes people stand a few feet back: as if red-hot energy seeps out of his pores, as if he might burn you if you get too close. "You want it. I want it. Let's get together and feel alright."

I swallow a smile. Still a fucking pig, though. I flick my fringe out of my eyes and return his unblinking stare: "You couldn't make me _feel alright _if you stapled your tongue to my clit and stood on a cement-mixer."

He hangs his head and laughs, a real, genuine laugh. _Tushe _I think, remembering our first encounter. "Too pussy to take a change, little girl!" he calls, but the words are playful.

"See you later!" I call back, flipping him off over my shoulder.

"Yeah, you love me."

**-o-o-o-**

For the rest of the day, I don't catch any of the occasional glances Emily usually throws me. A part of me is relieved, but at the same time I find myself frequently glancing at her in class to see if she will catch my eye – but every time I look at her, her eyes are studiously downcast or she's chatting quietly with Katie or JJ. _You don't care, Naomi _I tell myself furiously.

When the final bell rings, I walk toward the carpark to unchain my bike.

"See you, Naoms," a husky voice murmurs. I glance up and briefly lock eyes with Emily before she disappears behind me, walking in the opposite direction with a scowling Katie. Relief floods through me and I sigh, annoyed with myself. Another white flag. _Christ_ - when is she going to begin to realise that I don't _deserve_ any more fucking white flags.

I bite my lip, agitated, and locate my bike in the racks.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted a lift," a voice calls as I begin fiddling at the chain. I turn to see Kieran standing nervously next to a complete shit-box of a car.

"What?" I ask instinctively, surprised.

"You know, save your legs," he says uncertainly. "Your _wheels_. Only if you - "

I hesitate. It's a bit weird, isn't it? Getting a lift home from your politics teacher? But then I glance at his face, taut with worry, and catch myself: Kieran doesn't have some sleazy agenda. _He's just a nice guy, Naomi. _Is it that hard to believe?

"You can give me a lift," I smile, still a bit nervous. He grins and darts around to the driver's seat. I raise an eyebrow as he begins kicking at the passenger door, face shining with effort. It flies open with force and I step back, narrowly avoiding being clipped.

He swivels the ignition and the engine turns over weakly, wheezing like an asthmatic. A couple of awkward minutes later the car has established itself as stationary and Kieran hangs back as I unchain my bike.

It's only a short walk to my house, so I walk slowly, Kieran wheeling my bike between us.

"So," he sighs after a long stretch of companionable silence.

"A Student President. What a superb demonstration of the _innovative and positive attitudes to learning _at the heart of Roundview fucking College." He deadpans, quoting a line from the student handbook.

I laugh derisively. "Yeah, somehow I don't think even our illustrious President will be able to clean up Roundview. D'you know who's applied? _James fucking Cook."_

"Wait, the one with the funny coloured dick?" He groans, despairing. "Not that ball-bag."

I nod, cringing.

"It's all part of her grand love note to Ofsted: it looks good to have a student president. Will that person have _power_?"

"Will they, bollocks." I scoff, rolling my eyes. He looks at me strangely for a moment and I avert my eyes.

We've reached my house: I look at the creamy yellow structure with distaste, not looking forward to diving back into the deafening clamour of the hippie-hostel.

"I think you should stand." Kieran says seriously. I snap my head back toward him in surprise.

"What? Why?" I question.

"Come on, you're the best. We both know it," he says firmly, pulling an application form from his pocket and offering it to me.

"Is that a compliment?" I smile, teasing the usually cynical Irishman. "Are you complimenting me?"

"Well, I've got a few compliments in me," he laughs. His gaze slips past me and he raises an eyebrow. "Listen, is it my drug problem or is someone waving at that window?"

I follow his gaze to see my mum, waving with both hands at us like she's watching me in a fucking school play or something. "Oh God, it's my mum…. Don't look."

"I want to meet this mythical creature!" Kieran cries gleefully, smiling.

"No." I snap firmly, taking my bike from him. No fucking way. My mother needs to be kept in quarantine. I stride quickly toward the house and then stop, uncertainty nibbling at me. _Oh, fuck it._ I turn around and take the application from his hand, biting at my lip.

"Thanks." I say quickly, retreating again.

I close my eyes briefly before I open the front door, steeling myself. Like a whale surfacing before a dive, I take a deep pull of air and step inside. I make a beeline for my bedroom, – which is hopefully _empty _now – pausing to snatch our mail from a pair of grubby hands and to have a brief, abrasive encounter with my mother, who vapidly informs me that _someone stole the telly from your room. _

"Jesus, is there never any peace?" I mutter angrily as I reef open my bedroom door.

And then my stomach falls to my feet because my room is definitely _not _empty. Not a dirty hippie this time, but _Emily fucking Fitch _perched nervously on the end of my bed. My _horrendously_ unmade bed.

"How did you get in here?" I splutter, trying to remain casual despite the fact that I can see a pair of my knickers splayed across the floor a few feet from her. Not the sexy kind, either: they've got ice creams printed on them. Jesus.

"This weird guy let me in," she replies lightly, but her eyes are wary. "Looks a bit like Jesus?"

I bite back a smile, shutting the door behind me and moving further into the room. "Yeah, it's like a game of Christ-themed Guess Who in this house." I mutter, leaning against my dresser. My innards seemed to have returned to their normal state of gravity, but I'm still slightly flustered.

"What d'you want?" I demand, crossing my arms in a pathetic attempt to reclaim some of my usual frostiness.

She places a piece of paper on my bed. "Wanted to give you this."

I peer at the document. PRESIDENT APPLICATION FORM. _Christ_. I smile tugs at my lips, because I can't help but find her unswayable ballsy-ness endearing. I'm beginning to realise that Emily Fitch is braver than I'll ever be. Somehow she's convinced that there's something about me beneath all the ice worth excavating, and no matter how much cruelty I throw at her she just shakes it off and calls bullshit.

"You're very annoying," I inform her, a smile warming my voice.

"Yeah, well, you seem to inspire it in me," she smirks with a hint of exasperation.

"Jinx." I say, placing the crumpled form under my arm next to hers. She smiles.

"You're gonna run? Great," she says happily, sweeping her fringe out of her eyes. "I'll help with the form."

"No, Emily," I say quickly. "I don't need any help."

She glances back at me, her face falling to a mixture of hurt and frustration. I meet her eyes briefly and then flick my gaze away, my gut curdling with revulsion at my own fucking cowardice. I stare at my feet. I can't fucking help it. The way she _looks _at me - it's like the walls I've built around myself are panes of glass, like I'm fucking _transparent. _But who am I, really, when you peel away all that bullshit? I don't think I know. All the sarcasm and bitchiness I've painted over myself like layers of skin – if I were to let all that fall away, what would be left? Would there _be _anything left?

"Right. OK. Well, see you." She says with a kind of steely cheerfulness that hits me like a slap. She smiles tightly at me and strides from the room.

In her absence I let my bag fall numbly to the floor. I feel sick. My fingers do their nervous flutter against my collarbone and I swallow thickly, trying to dislodge the shard of emotion lodged in my throat.

My door opens sharply and I glance up. It's Emily, and her expression is _fiery. _Those soft brown eyes have turned sharp as knives and her mouth is a tight line.

"Just so you know," she snarls furiously. "My first thought when I see you is not _I want to fuck that girl."_

"No, I –" I begin.

"We've kissed. Twice." She cuts me off harshly and I shut my mouth mutely. "It was nice. But it's also nice just _being _with you. When you're not being a prickthat is."

I glance at her nervously, scolded. "Thanks," I say quietly; uncertainly.

"You should run for President because I think you'd be good at it," she continues, voice softening. "It's that simple, OK?"

"OK," I say in a whispery voice. "And you should…stay."

She blinks at me, surprised. I'm surprised, too, but the shock is nothing to the relief that rushes through me after I mutter the words; as if I was swimming against a rip and, just for a moment, I allow myself to relax into the tide.

"Thanks. I will."

She brushes past me and I stare, entranced, at the strands of crimson hair set alight by the afternoon light filtering in through my window.

Only problem is, I might drown. But right now I can't bring myself to care.


End file.
